


Boogeyman

by Doodled93



Series: Stories In Update Limbo (See Notes In Series For Note on Update) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boogeyman - Freeform, Childhood, Children, Curses, Kid!Fic, Multi, Nightmares, Spooky, Supernatural - Freeform, curse, family curse, young!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:30:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doodled93/pseuds/Doodled93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has always had a unique relationship with the things that go bump in the night, but that could be expected considering he inherited the family legacy.<br/>In a life where he knows everyone's fears, it's interesting meeting a man afraid of nothing.<br/>Literally Nothing, and not in a way you'd think...</p><p>(Relationships a weak possibility right now)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Sharp Smile

Boogeyman

 

Chapter 1

 

When John was young he found he had a special place in his head that was so special he couldn’t talk to others about it.

He could occasionally whisper about it to his great Aunt Marsha, giggling over its special bits and sharing the new places he discovered inside, but if he tried to talk about it to his Mum his tongue twisted and his throat got clogged with a feeling like smoke.

He once got out enough to tell his Da it was a scary place, and he’d laughed, ruffling John’s hair. “There’s no reason to be afraid! What is it? Dogs? Spiders? The Dark?”

John didn’t know how to tell him that he wasn’t afraid of the place, or anything therein, only that it was a scary place.

He rather liked it, actually.

His Aunt Marsha didn’t think it strange, and gave great laughs that sounded like feral dogs barking when he asked why she didn’t think it strange.

“It’s because I have a space like that too, Johnny, though I don’t visit as often as I should.”

John really liked his Aunt Marsha, even if Harry was afraid of her.

(Sometimes he liked her even more because Harry was afraid of her, but that was secret.)

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

When John was about to start preschool, his Aunt Marsha had a fight with his Da.

He was really excited to go, to meet other kids like Harry had, to show he was all grown up and going to school, and he was sad that his Aunt didn’t want him to go.

In the fight his Mum was silent, and his Da shouted a lot, saying words like ‘Normal Life’ and ‘like the other kids’ and for a moment John thinks that this is all Harrys doing.

Harry told them he was too young to go, too much of a baby, probably, and that just wasn’t fair!

But then he does end up going, and he’s too excited about everything to say anything about the possibility of not going.

He’s got his new backpack; he’s got his very own pack of colored pencils, regular pencils too and erasers! It’s awesome, and he’s quickly immersed in the experience.

His Teacher is nice even if she is afraid of big dogs, and his classmates are mostly fun and draws weird things like Harry does, but it’s all fine. He’s made a couple of best friends already, so now Harry can stop bragging about hers.

Everything is fantastic, and his Da gives his Aunt smug looks every time John comes home.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He still talks with his Aunt Marsha, and wonders with her about why someone would want to draw things like flowers that don’t bite, of dogs that don’t snarl, of people with regular faces.

She always grins extra sharp, and says he’ll understand when he’s older, but she agrees that it’s silly.

She also agrees that his drawing of the monster under Harry’s bed is amazing.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Naptime is a strange time for John, and is made even more so by the fact that everyone in his class wakes up crying from nightmares every time. Except John.

(John never gets nightmares, he only ever found out about them when Harry got them.)

Naptime is now a weary point of time, as it doesn’t seem like anyone really gets them at home, and John makes up dreams that he supposes would be scary because he doesn’t want to be the odd one out.

Things get very quiet at home when he tells his family the oddity.

He doesn’t think it strange that no one asks if he’d had nightmares too.

He’s only relieved that he doesn’t have to lie to anyone at home.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

When he’s a bit older, he ends up staying at his Aunts place on weekends.

He always gets his homework done, and still goes to friends’ houses when invited, inviting those friends over when he felt the urge, but he’s happy spending time with his Aunt.

She tells him stories that give him delightful chills, and rents horror films to watch with the lights off right before bed.

He can talk to her for ages about the dreams he gets, about the special place in his head, about the kids he plays with and the new girl at school, Sandy, who’s afraid of going into the water, and feels normal in a way that he can’t quite get to at school.

He’s there for his Aunt on the anniversary of Great Uncle Brody’s death, and she tells him that one day he’ll find someone like that for himself.

“Someone who will see something strange and laugh,” she would say, “someone who will tell you that you make them feel brave.” She says this with a voice full of wonder, like this is a strange thing, and it isn’t until much later that John understands fully what that means.

It isn’t until much later that he understands the difference between making someone feel safe, making someone feel protected, and making someone feel brave.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

When parent-teacher conferences happen, his Mum looks worried and his Da looks like he’s determined to be calm, and one of the lights in the hallway always stutters into darkness so no one sees John listening at the door.

Mrs. Talbot is worried about him.

John thinks that’s rather nice, if unnecessary of her, and then he’s more than a bit uncomfortable.

“He gets along very well with all of the other children; I haven’t had to sort out any problems with him at all, actually. I’m just worried about his… well, not exactly his mental health, but I’m worried about what his interests seem to be geared towards.”

“And what is that?” His Mum asks. Her tone doesn’t give anything away, but John knows it’s that tone of voice that means she’s ready to calm his Da down at a moment’s notice.

Which meant his Da was getting antsy.

“He seems to think of rather _dark_ things… his drawings are well done for his age, but are almost always about something rather nightmarish.”

“Well boys will be boys, he always liked that sort of thing,” his Da says, “the bigger the fangs, the scalier the beast, the more he loves it. What’s wrong with that?”

There’s a short, strained silence, and a small rustling of paper. “Okay, well here’s one of his writing projects. The class was to take one slip of paper each from three hats, one of the hats had a setting, and two hats had characters that the students could choose one to be the hero, and one the villain. They had to write a story about it… and here, John got a Meadow, A Wolf, and A Prince…”

There was a short amount of time where there was only the rustling of paged, and his Mum cleared her throat. He remembered the story; he thought he’d done a good job of it.

“Hardly any spelling mistakes at all. And an interesting twist making the wolf and the prince one in the same.”

“That’s right. Reads just like one of those Grimm fairytales, and he even used the word ‘disquiet’ right.”

“Ah, yes, I remember him asking me what that meant just last week,” confirmed his mother.

“Well, yes, John is remarkably bright, and very creative,” agreed Mrs. Talbot, sounding strained. “It’s just that not many children would be able to think up something like this—”

“I hope you aren’t suggesting that John cheated in any way.” His Da had his forbidding tone out, voice low and menacing in a way that always made John smile.

(Forbidding and Menacing were two other words he’d learned recently, and he rather liked them.)

“Oh no, no, no, of course not! It’s just not something I would expect from someone his age! It does read a lot like a Grimm tale, I did a project on the original tales when I was in Uni. It’s just—well, here, I have a story here about a boy and his step mother living in a castle, and another here about a Woodsman getting lost in a city after being tricked by a witch… This is more of what I was expecting. Very straightforward good and bad.”

“Well isn’t it good that he’s trying to make it a bit more interesting?” asked his Da.

“Yes, it’s always good when they use their imagination… I was wondering, what does John do at home? What does he read? What kind of shows does he watch on the weekends?”

“Well he reads normal books around the house, mostly ones he picks up from school,” Mum paused for a significant moment, and John could imagine the raised-eyebrow look she was likely giving Mrs. Talbot, “and he doesn’t watch much telly. On weekends he usually visits his Great Aunt, and I know she’s a big fan of the original fairytales. John’s always been a big fan of scary stories, and she’s…”

“She’s sort of the boogeyman of the family, you could say.” His Da sounds like he’s smiling, and a part of John relaxes, because it’s never pleasant when his Da get’s shouty.

“Yes, you _could_ say that.” Now his Mum must be giving that look to his Da. “But John adores her.”

His teacher hums, and the rest of the conversation goes much smoother, talking about John’s grades and what he’s been up to in classes, where he’s excelling (a word he’ll have to look up, but can guess at for the moment), where he needs work (which he honestly doesn’t: he has enough homework thanks), and other general and kind of uninteresting things, so John sits down and wonders why Mrs. Talbot doesn’t like his story.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Of course, he ends up wishing he’d listened in a bit longer, because it’s only a few days after that that, following his mum’s van is his Aunt Marsha’s tiny old car.

“Your Aunt was just invited to go meet your teacher sweetie, since she’s a big part of your life,” his Mum assures him, and after a quick hug tells him to bring his Aunt to his homeroom if he didn’t mind.

“You know Harry has a dental appointment,” she apologizes to his Aunt, and takes a huffing Harry away with her.

(Another thing John doesn’t think much of is the fact that he hasn’t ever needed to go to the dentists. This is something Harry only catches on to when she’s in her teens, and loudly complains about the unfairness of it all. The appointment he goes to less than a week later says that he doesn’t have any cavities, and he only grins wider when she says “What big teeth you have, little bro, don’t make me punch them out!”)

John leads his Aunt through the school, detouring to show her all the other stops and places he goes to, pointing out this and that and out the window to the screaming tree in the yard, and is just finishing telling her all about the wailing noise it makes in high winds when they make it to his homeroom.

Mrs. Talbot is just asking John if he could wait outside again when his Aunt interrupts.

“No Johnny, you stay right here. This meeting is about you and you should be able to hear it.”

John gapes slightly at her—she interrupted the _teacher_! —and she grins at him to tell him she knows he’d just be listening in anyway.

Mrs. Talbot seems thrown by this, but accepts it and John gleefully pulls up a chair next to his Aunts to be a part of the conversation.

“So this is because of the story Johnny wrote, hmm?”

“Well, sort of…” Mrs. Talbot cuts her eyes towards John, and he smiles.

“Can I get my grade then?” he asks as politely as he can.

“Oh, yes, please tell me you have his grade already. He wouldn’t let me read his story until he got it back, hmph!” His Aunt shoots him an unimpressed look, face full of shadows and disapproving lines, but he grins back unrepentant. He’d been hoping he could show it to her as a surprise, but this was fine too.

“Oh, well, of course, here it is.”

His Aunt gives her such a cool look when she goes to hand his booklet to her, not moving to take it, that John gets goosebumps when he reaches for it instead.

Mrs. Talbot flushes like Riley Jenkins does when she’s teased about her extreme dislike of the colour purple (it’s one of the strange fears John knows about), and John flips through his journal book to look at corrections. There are a couple of words he misspelled, or forgot to finish with the letter ‘e’, but on the first page there’s a green star sticker and the letter ‘A’ and he’s satisfied that he can show this to his Aunt when he hands it over.

She reads it over silently, eyes as sharp as razor blades and a grin poking around the corners of her mouth, and John waits as patiently as he can for her to finish.

He wrote it for her. He hopes she likes it.

When she reaches the last page, she closes the small booklet and turns to give him a serious look.

“That was wonderful Johnny. I really liked that part where, after the Wolf killed the Prince, he put on his skin and pretended to be human to stop the killing of his pack.”

John beams and sits on his hands to keep from fidgeting in his joy.

“I hoped you would! Remember when you told me about hunters smearing animal blood and wearing their skins to hide in a forest? I used that!”

“I thought so. Good job twisting it around like that. Makes it a bit poetic for the Wolf to do that when the humans of the kingdom did it to hunt out all the animals in the forest.”

John nods happily, happy that his Aunt liked it.

“Isn’t it a bit sad though that the Wolf couldn’t go back to his Pack afterwards?”

John frowns in confusion at his teacher.

“Well he couldn’t exactly go back to them when he’s trapped in the Princes skin, now could he? And he has to be around to make sure they don’t try to kill off all his friends again.” He tries to explain. He’d thought he’d mad it obvious, but maybe this is why his teacher didn’t like his story.

“But it doesn’t really leave the ending a happy one, does it?”

John shares a look with his Aunt. “The endings to stories are never entirely happy.”

Mrs. Talbot gets a wrinkle between her eyebrows when she frowns. “And why is that? I know you read Justin’s story, that had a happy ending.”

“What about the witch?” he asks. It was a part he’d tried talking to Justin about, but Justin didn’t like redoing work.

“What about the witch? She tricked the huntsman.”

“ _Yes_ , because he chopped down her house and ate it. It may not be very nice that she tricked him into getting lost in a city, but I don’t think I’d be very nice to someone who ate my house either.”

“And where would the witch live after that?” His Aunt asks, and John nods. That’s true, he hadn’t thought of that part of it.

 “Okay, I guess that’s true… okay, look John, I’m just worried that you seem to be interested in ore… morbid things.”

“What does morbid mean?”

“Means you’re interested in things most people find unsettling and unpleasant, Johnny dear.”

“No! No, John, you’re just a bit overly interested in scary things.”

“But they aren’t scary.” Not really, anyway. There were certainly scarier things out there than what he writes about and draws.

Mrs. Talbot sighs and runs her fingers through her bangs in a short, frustrated movement.

“Look—John, what are you afraid of? What’s something you find scary?”

John draws up a blank, and has to think on that.

What was he scared of?

Scary movies didn’t make him jump or his heart race any more than a jog would, he liked spiders and had always wanted to be friends with the monsters Harry said lived in the shadows of his wardrobe and under every bed.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

He turns to his Aunt. “Do you know what I’m afraid of?”

It doesn’t seem strange to ask her this, but apparently Mrs. Talbbot disagrees.  
“No, John, why would your Aunt know what you’re afraid of if you don’t?”

“Well, why wouldn’t she? She can tell like I can what other people are afraid of. And she can tell why too.”

“Oh really? Then what’s your Aunt afraid of?”

John scowls at her, shocked. “That’s a personal question, and you’re a rude and horrible person to ask that of me.” It’s word for word what his Mum told him to tell other people if they asked him something like that.

“John!” He frowns harder and crosses his arms.

“I don’t tell other people’s fears, it’s rude.”

Mrs. Talbot rolled her eyes, still looking offended, and John decided he perhaps didn’t much like her after all. She was rather small-minded.

“Then how about me, hmm? What am I afraid of?”

John scoffs. “You’re afraid of big dogs, that’s easy.”

“What?”

“It’s true, you are,” his Aunt agrees, grinning her sharp smile at John, and he relaxed somewhat to give her a small smile back.

“Oh, what, and you’re going to tell me why? You are not helping in the least, John has an actual problem with his focus on all this creepy stuff, and you’re encouraging him! He could grow up to have issues because of this you know!”

She was doing that talking over his head thing she tended to do when parents were around, and John frowned more. There was nothing wrong with him.

“You’re afraid of dogs because of that Newfie from your cottage.” His Aunt’s voice doesn’t cut through the tension in the room so much as it slips through the cracks to stab at the heart of it. Mrs. Talbot’s mouth opens, but no words come out, and his Aunt continues.

“It was big, heavy and crushing when it knocked you over, just about squished the air from your lungs, and what air you had left was tangled up and suffocating in the sheer amount of _fur_ there was, and it just wouldn’t move no matter how you thrashed. It had a big mouth and a big bark, too, but that doesn’t matter because it didn’t bite you, but you felt like you were going to die anyway. Just suffocated, and crushed to nothing. Not all dogs bite, you know that, but just about all of them jump up, and it terrifies you that the next dog to knock you down will be a bigger one, heavier, and _that’s_ why you’re afraid of big dogs.”

There’s silence, Mrs. Talbot staring at his Aunt, stunned, and John opened his eyes, smiling.

He always closed his eyes when his Aunt told the why’s, pictured it like she said it because she was a wonderful story teller, and he was always left with that thrumming through his veins afterwards.

His teacher gasped in a short breath when his Aunt continued, but John didn’t need to close his eyes for this.

“You know what else there is that I’ve noticed about you? You say no a lot. No, No, No, you say, _No_ John _this_ is what I meant even though I said _that_ , _No_ John _this_ is how you should think, _No_ John you should be interested in _these_ things, not _those_ , _No_ John you shouldn’t be thinking things like this, _No_ John, you’re just worried. No, No, No, and you were hoping that by having me here to talk to, you might be able to see what’s going _wrong_. But the thing is: Johnny here knows what’s scary, and isn’t scared by it. He likes it like any lesson, and he hasn’t figured out himself what he _is_ afraid of because he’s been busy figuring out what there is that isn’t worth being afraid of.”

Aunt Marsha’s head tilts, short hair curling about her neck, and the light in the room and the light coming from the multitude of windows makes her skin look grey in a way that isn’t.

“Johnny isn’t a problem student, do you agree?” Mrs. Talbot nodded jerkily, eyes wide.

“Do you know why? It’s because Johnny knows it’s okay to be afraid. There’s a girl in your class who’s afraid of the colour purple, and Johnny doesn’t tease. You’re afraid of big dogs, and he only mentions that he knows it now. Johnny knows that fear is a good thing, that it makes us cautious when we would be stupid, makes us think about what could be in the darkness. Makes us wonder. And people can be taught not to fear things, taught that purple isn’t something to be weary of, that dogs can be trained, but I haven’t yet met someone who said they could train a person to accept that they are afraid, and accept fear in others, and not try to change things. So you, Mrs. Talbot, can know that Johnny is fine. Likeminded people look after him, and he’ll grow up fine. There is nothing wrong with the things that go bump in the night, and there’s nothing wrong with those who embrace the noise. Have a nice day.”

John holds his journal book in one hand, and his Aunt’s hand in the other, and smiles at the sound of the screaming tree when the wind picks up outside.

There’s nothing wrong with him.

If there was, that would mean there was something wrong with his Aunt, too, and that’s impossible.

She’s amazing.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.


	2. Dreams and Nightmares

Chapter 2

 

John had always had dreams; he could never recall a time when he didn’t.

(Though you might argue that that’s something that anyone could say)

He supposed he had normal dreams just like anyone else, as well.

He had dreams about dogs, cats, and other animals. He had dreams about fields and flowers too. He had dreams of being out at sea, of swimming (often with various animals), of running and flying. He had dreams about people, all kinds, and he was never alone in his dreams.

It took him a long time to realize that most people didn’t have these kinds of dreams every night.

(And even now he was sort of sad for them for that fact, ridiculous as it is)

He doesn’t find it strange that when he dreams of animals they always have large teeth made for tearing, or spit acid or some sort of poison.

It’s not an odd idea that the fields in his dream show no signs of stopping, no sign of any life, that the plants in his dreams are large enough to swallow a person whole but don’t have to because they too have fangs.

He dreams of being in the middle of the ocean and not worrying about the fact that he can’t swim, tat there are sharks, squids, slimy things that clutched at his legs, that the boats in his dreams rock from huge waves or even that the people in his dreams are never happy.

He doesn’t find it odd that all dreams of flying end in a crash.

He doesn’t think it strange that there’s something chasing him in his running dreams.

It was his Aunt Marsha who even brought up the possibility that there were other kinds of dreams.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

After his Aunt Marsha talks to Mrs. Talbot, John notices she stops trying to get him to stop giving his flowers fangs, that she goes quiet and thoughtful when he doesn’t join in on teasing, and his parents are happy with his grades.

Later, there’s another parent-teacher meeting, and Mrs. Talbot nearly pushes his parents from the room at the end of it.

John wonders what he’ll do for the summer.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

His Aunt find him medical texts in the shelves placed in her attic, and John spends the summer learning about Gangrene in between taking swimming lessons, looks over diagrams of amputations gone wrong before heading off to play at Rory MacKenna’s house, and impresses his Aunt by learning the cardiovascular system before school starts.

(His parents are proud too, but don’t want him talking about it during dinner)

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John notices that Mrs. Talbot stops Mr. Tellsaw in the yard in the first week of school, and Mr. Tellsaw looks to him at something she says.

John waves, and Mrs. Talbot seems to freeze.

Mr. Tellsaw waves back with a grin, and John goes back to playing pirates.

He isn’t terribly interested in the game, but he’s having fun telling the other boys about various illnesses you could get on the sea, and his description of scurvy prompts an Orange outbreak in the school lunches.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The first time John gets kissed by a girl, it’s on the cheek and all his guy friends make gagging noises while giggling.

Mary Thomson promptly bursts into tears.

John turns to glare at them (because honestly, you couldn’t make a girl _cry_ , that was taking things too far!), when she sobs and bursts out “You’re scary John!” before running away.

He’s baffled, but shrugs it off soon enough.

Girls were weird, anyway.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John loved Halloween.

He loved helping his Aunt decorate her house, and loved that she helped decorate his parent’s house, and loved that his and his Aunt’s houses were known as the best to get to.

Aunt Marsha always had the scarier house, but his parents made up for it by buying the biggest candy bars to hand out.

This year he was going to be an army man, and his Aunt said she’d help him get the blood looking real, and he’d already been practicing getting the fake blood for the cuts and bullet wounds all ready, and he was going to have the best costume in the class.

He always got the scariest costume award, but this was the first year he was allowed to use fake blood, rather than red makeup, and it was going to be _fantastic_.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

His Da jumped the morning he came downstairs, most of his costume on.

Abruptly, there’s a snap, like static shock across his skin, and his Da was more afraid of John one day coming home actually wounded like this than he was of Aunt Marsha.

Part of John wanted to throw his hands up in the air in victory, but a greater part of him felt something warm and squishy twist and burn in his insides, so he instead carefully walked over to his Da and hugged him.   
“I’m okay, Da, I’m okay…”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John thinks it’d be funny to stagger in and collapse in his classroom until it suddenly isn’t.

Even sitting up and laughing like it’s the funny joke it was doesn’t stop people from freaking out, and John gets sent to the office for playing a cruel joke.

Some of his classmates are still crying, and Davis Greymont was dry heaving into the garbage can.

He only feels mildly better about it all when he makes the principal jump and scream when he comes out to investigate his secretary’s screech.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Mr. Tellsaw treats him differently after Halloween, but John thinks it’s mostly to do with him getting in trouble, calling for an ambulance before John could convince him that he didn’t actually have bullet wounds and cuts all over his body.

He’s not all that upset when Mr. Tellsaw’s fear of heights keeps shifting to being afraid of him.

It _was_ a scary costume, after all.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Middleschool has a lot of changes, and John does his best to move with them.

Girls who he used to play in the mud with were less willing to get dirty. He stopped asking if they wanted to play certain games.

Guys who he’d played with on weekends were suddenly strutting about school like they owned the place, and had no more time for him. He stopped asking if they wanted to hang out.

People were less willing to talk about and listen to things that interested him. John learns to keep it to him and family.

Harry, who was going to be in High School next year, was always embarrassed by him and tried to rush her friends past him like they hadn’t known him since he was in diapers.

“God,” she says, “can’t you try to be a little less _creepy_? Everyone’s going to think you’re weird!” She looks over her shoulder like she was worried someone might overhear her mention the possibility that someone in the family was _weird_ , and John frowned. He didn’t see what it mattered what other people thought, but knew that Harry cared.

She cared about things he didn’t, just like other people did, and so John kept more and more of his actual interests to himself, and finds other ways to keep himself busy.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

When he reaches High School himself, he’s gotten good at keeping his stranger interests to himself and family, even if he is still the strange guy who’s really into Halloween.

But that’s a cool sort of strange, so he can deal with it.

He worries sometimes that he isn’t as close to his Da anymore, his ‘normal’ façade from school somehow bleeding into their interactions, but he knows that some things have been harder for his Da to understand and accept than his Mum and Aunt.

His Mum smiles in this horrible, tired way when he mentions this to her, and says that his Da has always wanted what’s best for him, and that he feels it would be much easier if he was more like some of the other children, and it hurts.

It hurts even when he understands what she means, because John has experienced bullying, has had old friends poke and prod at parts of him that would be raw and tender on anyone else. It hurts because if his Da wasn’t so focused on what would be considered more ‘normal’ for him, he’d be able to see that things like that don’t bother him.

His Aunt Marsha complains about his Da on a weekly basis, and when John tells her what his Mum said, she snorts.

“Easier? Easier for _himself_ , more like it…”

But John understands.

He always understands.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He starts wearing comforting clothing when he notices that people are getting skittish of him.

He layers with sweaters and cheerful colours, switching to neutral colours when a horror movie comes out with the killer being a kindergarten teacher, and people start looking sideways at him.

Harry laughs, but is all for it, buying him a number of woolen sweaters, and says that he’s not the black sheep of the family, not really.

“You’re the wolf in sheep’s clothing now,” she mock-whispers.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John gets his first date his second year of High School, and it’s with Cassie Anne who likes horror/thriller movies, and laughs at his darker sense of humor, and doesn’t flinch when John smiles unexpectedly.

When they go out on dates it’s always to an event or activity, because John’s mother is a firm believer that you can’t get to know someone by sitting next to them for an hour and a half in a darkened room, and because John likes being active. Cassie does too.

A month in, when they kiss for the first time, she doesn’t burst into tears, either, and John counts this dating thing a success.

He feels a bit troubled by the fact that all these dates are making him feel like they’re getting to be really good friends, because he feels like he should be feeling like they’re _more_ than friends, or feel a bit more like he has a girlfriend, and after the third month of dating, feels like things might end up going better between them if they _weren’t_ in a relationship.

He’s troubled, but it’s comfortable, so he doesn’t try to break things off.

This turns out to be even less of a worry, because they break up soon after their next date.

John had thought that they might be close enough to be able to ‘waste’ a date on a movie, and they go to see a Hitchcock film.

He honestly can’t think of a better mutual breakup than one that happens after the entire theater freaks out during a horror film, the couple behind them throwing up, and John can hear the barking laughter of his Aunt all the way from home.

That date makes it into the paper, at least the massive freak-out of the theater does, but it means that when it comes out that John’s and Cassie Anne’s breakup happens soon after it’s made into a bigger deal than it is.

They’re still friends, and Cassie Anne sticks up for him somewhat unnecessarily when people laugh about John’s dating prowess (“Of course he’d choose the scariest for their first movie together,” “Haha, is it any wonder even Cassie couldn’t keep up with John’s love of all things horrific?” “You know I heard he didn’t even flinch or scream at _all_ during the movie, like, _at all_ ,” “Figures…”), and after John gets the hang of not choosing to see or do anything scary with his dates, he ends up not being single for the remainder of his time in high school.

It does result in him getting the somewhat joking reputation of the Friendly Neighborhood Serial Dater by graduation, as he’s good friends with all of the girls he’s dated, and that’s fine.

He never meets someone he thinks he can be entirely open with, which is why most of the breakups happen.

When he gets into St. Barts he gets a lot of congratulations, and no one is surprised that he wants to get into trauma surgery, which he’s not surprised about, but when he confides that he’s planning on joining the RAMC he is surprised at the fact that no one questions him.

“Well,” his friend Jack starts with a small smile, “we’re hardly going to scare you away from going. And you’ve got nerves of steel…”

“You’ve just got to promise one thing, though,” says Stacy (who he’d dated for a whole 6 months before breaking things off).

“What’s that?”

She smiles, but she’s looking at him seriously.

“Not to die.”

John smiles, and none of his friends flinch even though he’s showing his teeth.

“I promise.”

He knows that none of them would be able to convince him not to go, and they’re right that he’s not afraid.

Nothing in the army could ever be scarier than his Aunt Marsha.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John stares down at the text for a moment, ‘ _Fam help needed’_ from Harry, before getting his coat and heading out the door. His Aunt doesn’t ask questions, saying “Tell Harriet to visit,” as he left, and John takes a brisk run to Harry’s apartment.

It takes a little over 15 minutes to get there, something Harry had complained about initially when looking for her own place for while she went to college, and hardly a minute to get in with his coy of her keys.

Down the hall from her apartment he can hear the sound of yelling, and can feel the thrum of Harry’s fear of Aunt Marsha flicker with the sound of breaking glass, and a second later he’s unlocking her door to the sound of a bottle breaking against it.

“ _How about now, you bitch? Fearless now?_ ” A woman’s voice shouted, voice unfamiliar.

John opened the door in time to see a woman he vaguely recognized as someone from Harry’s college brandish a broken bottle in Harry’s direction.

Harry was darting around the kitchen counter, eyes wide and face pale, but the flickering in her fear of Aunt Marsha stops when John catches her eyes.

He takes everything in at a glance; the broken glass littering the floor, the bright red mark on one of Harry’s cheeks and a burgeoning bruise just under her cheekbone, and, when the still screaming woman turns to look at him, the crazed and wild look in the woman’s eyes.

She’s afraid of men with power.

He can suddenly so many more facts of her life, that she was picked on in school until she moved, how much she resented any man having control in her life, how she decided to be lesbian to avoid dealing with men. He could see how Harry must have looked like a challenge and a compliment as strong-willed as she was, how attractive she was, and he could see the frustration that Harry wasn’t just strong; she was unafraid, so unafraid of everything that it was galling to this woman, to Sidney Haynes, who couldn’t help being afraid of most men.

He could see this, and could see how the unmentioned relationship between her and Harry had started to devolve, as Sidney started feeling weak with her fears where Harry had none (where she actually only had _one_ and it was in the family), and a glance down at the table by the door showed haphazardly thrown ticket stubs: all horror films.

(“ _How about now, you bitch? Fearless now?_ ”)

John gives Harry a reassuring look, and turns his full attention to Sidney.

He shifts slightly, and from the quickening of her breath and twitch of her eyes John knows that he’s no longer Harry’s harmless little brother with the soft jumpers and wide blue eyes.

No, now he’s every punk who’s catcalled from alleyways late at night, he’s every sneering bully who pushed her down, called her names, he’s every businessman looking down her shirt without fear of reprisal, and he’s the monster out from under her bed and grinning a too-bright smile.

The broken bottle is pointed at him now.

He drifts to the side slightly and moves forward, a sharp smile with just the right amount of teeth ( _too many, too many teeth_ ), and the bottle is just a little too slow in following his movements and he’s got the bottle away in moments, hands at his sides, and he tilts his head at her, condescending.

“Who are you? _Who are you?_ How did you get in?” she demands, backing up. Harry moves back around the counter until she’s behind John, and he reaches back blindly to take her hand.

“Sidney was it? Or Cindy…” he pretends to think about it a moment, then shrugs a bit, like it doesn’t matter, like she doesn’t matter, and he knows she hates it.

Hates it so much because she’s afraid it’s true.

John would feel bad about preying on her fears like this, of making her so afraid, but a quick glance back at Harry shows that bruise, and a glance down at their joined hands shows a red and slightly swollen wrist, and things go a bit grey around the edges, smoky, and he heard Harry’s breath hitch.

Something inside him hardens.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Sidney leaves crying and hysterical, and John calls out “We’ll be in touch!”

He brings her home and borrows the car to drive to the A&E to get her wrist looked at and calls the police while they’re waiting to be brought in.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John gives his statement, and his spare key to Harry’s apartment so they can get in to see where everything happened, and once Harry’s been checked out she gives her statement.

The Officer keeps giving John suspicious looks, and he knows he should relax, but he’s tense and angry and frustrated with Harry that there were other, older bruises that had to be looked after, and has to go sit down.

A noise makes him look up from staring at his lap.

A little girl, maybe 4 years old, who’s afraid of the dark is standing there with her head tilted to one side.

“Are you the boogey man?”

A muffled noise of shock makes him look to a woman whose now looking horribly embarrassed.

She starts to get up, obviously to get her little girl, and John shakes his head at her. He relaxes a bit more because she looks a bit fearful, and turns back to the little girl.

“Well are you?”

“I’m something like that. Why do you ask?”

The little girl frowns at him.   
“Why’re you here? D’joo scare someone to death?”

John raises his eyebrows in surprise, but shakes his head. Hesitates a moment, but figures why not humor her a little more?

“No, I don’t do things like that. I’m here because someone… someone mean hurt my sister really badly, and I’m here to make sure she’s okay.”

“You have a sister? Is she the boogey woman?”

“No, not at all,” John laughs, feeling suddenly tired. He’d been packing before he’d gotten the text from Harry, and he had a long day tomorrow making sure everything else was all packed.

The little girl is still frowning at him, and he tilts his head back at her, wondering what’s going to happen next?

“What’d joo do to the person who hurt your sister? And inn’t she scared of you? Your sister?”

“I’m pretty certain she’s at least a little afraid of me, but that’s good isn’t it?” he asks.

“How’s that?”

“Well, if she’s afraid of me, I’m the worst thing to be afraid of. Means other things are less scary. Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Well…”

“Well wouldn’t the dark be less scary if I’m the worst thing that could be hiding there? I mean,” he looks down at himself, thoughtful look on his face, “ _I_ don’t think I’m all that scary, but I _am_ the boogeyman…”

The little girl looks down, still frowning, but eventually nods and looks up at him.

“See? Now here, lets do this properly.” He holds out his hand. “My name is John, I’m the boogeyman, what’s your name?”

She smiles, showing off where her left incisor is missing, and shakes his hand.

“My name is Twyla, and I’m 4 and a half! And you still haven’t said what happened to the guy who hurt your sister…”

She purses her lips and raises both her eyebrows at him in such an obvious imitation of her mother that John laughs.

“Yes, well, guess I couldn’t fool you, huh? Well I scared the woman who hurt my sister away, and the police over there,” he points them out, “will make sure she can’t hurt anyone else again.”

“You didn’t kill her then?”

“No.”

“You know, you’re not all that scary.”

“Well you’re a brave girl, Twyla.”

John looked up and saw Harry heading in his direction, splint on her wrist and jacket over her arm, “There’s my sister now, I’ve got to go now, but it was nice talking to you Twyla.”

He pats her shoulder as he stands to leave, but Twyla grabs his hand.

“Can you take a picture with me?”

Harry’s just in earshot when this is said, and grins at him.

“But my sister’s…”

“Oh sure Johnny, I can wait. Go take your picture hun.”

John thinks he just manages to keep the blush off his face when Twyla’s mum agrees to take the picture of them, and at Twyla’s insistence he gives his address for a copy to be sent to him.

He wishes he didn’t have to deal with Harry’s teasing all the way home, but considering how quiet Harry had been on the ride over, he thinks he can stand a little mocking.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How're you folks feeling about this?


	3. The Fear

 John doesn’t figure out that he’s experiencing other people’s nightmares when he’s dreaming until midway through his first year at Uni.

For a moment he’s frustrated that his Aunt won’t just come out and tell him things like this, but he understands that it’s things like these that he has to learn himself.

She taught him all about how different fears work against different people, taught him how people tick, what buttons to press to make someone angry and fearful as opposed to pissing their pants in fear, but she’s definitely not the type to hand him all the answers… so this makes sense.

It’s still frustrating, but it makes sense.

It makes him feel bad, though, as his dreams usually get scarier when he has the time to affect them, and it’s an enjoyable thing to only him.

So he calls up his Aunt and asks how to move from one dream to the next, because he figures that instead of terrifying Jake Pierce down the hall again, or Robert McKinty who has a test to write day after next, he’d give a couple of people a few frights and move on.

Maybe an abrupt wake-up from falling, or the feeling of something following you in your dream until you lose it, or even just the idea of something crawling up their leg…

The next night his Aunt shows up in the Grey Place in his mind, and shows him how to move through the shadowy grey matter of people’s minds.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

Halloween is still John’s favorite holiday.

John quickly becomes the go-to guy for costumes and party planning, and he’s always willing to help decorate for a house party, and he helps people get their costumes just right in return for class notes and some tutoring, and on Halloween night goes out trick or treating.

He’ll never be too old for it, and the parents who would have turned him away without candy for being too old end up so impressed and frightened by his costumes that he gets candy from them anyway.

(Well, unless they get frightened enough to slam the door, but that was fun in it’ own way…)

After he gets enough loot, and stopping for a number of pictures with kids and some parents (it was the same every year), he goes to a few house parties and gets properly drunk and accidentally causes a riot on the way home.

His Mum tuts at him over the phone, but his Aunt just laughs and laughs.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

Mike Stanford is just down the hall from his room and is afraid of overly enthusiastic religious people (which makes John laugh, as this is actually a first for him), and is the one to go to when you want any gossip or news of what sort of events are happening around the campus.

He’s friends with everyone, and probably knows enough about everyone to blackmail them twice over, and doesn’t flinch when John smiles in greeting.

Doesn’t flinch when he accidentally shows his teeth.

He’s also the one to introduce John to Adam, and says nothing when John ends up dating the bloke for three months before breaking it off.

John experiments while in University, and takes a number of psych courses, enough that he could get a minor, and signs up for some student (non drug-related) testing in the department, having a laugh when he probably screws up their numbers by being himself.

He learns enough in the course about phobias that he teaches a couple of things to his Aunt ( _that’s_ a novel experience), and Harry still shakes her head at him when he’s strange, and his Da has somehow managed to convince himself that John’s _normal_.

The rest of the family trade looks when John has to pretend to be scared when he sneaks up on him, when he ignores the fact that the sketchy figures loitering around alleyways avoid looking at them when John’s with them, and try not to worry when he drinks himself into a stupor anytime John slips.

It’s why John packs all of his cuddliest jumpers, lets his hair grow out just enough to make him look boy-next-door, and doesn’t wear anything his Aunt makes him when at home.

Because you’ve never seen a jumper look so menacing as the ones his Aunt makes him.

Probably never looked at a scarf and thought how similar to a garrote it was, either.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

John gets high marks on his papers in all of his classes, and his Prof’s marvel at his willingness to go into detail past what most students are comfortable with.

In labs he’s the preferred partner because of his skill with a blade and his knowledge of chemicals, though one day his partner does faint when, while holding a scalpel, John grins at a joke another group has made.

~~(He hadn’t even had the damn thing pointed her way.)~~

~~(Some people were just so delicate…)~~

~~(He honestly hadn’t meant to show his teeth, really.)~~

John makes sure she isn’t teased about it, but she’s still jumpy around him

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

When he does graduate, and is getting ready to head off for training and the RAMC, and his Da is afraid but proud, Harry thinks he’s being stupid, and his Mum cries the entire trip to the airport.

His Aunt looks at him with narrowed eyes, and when he hugs her goodbye, she whispers one thing to him, the only thing she’s said all day.

_“They can’t hurt you if they’re afraid.”_

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

John has a hard time, at first, making friends while in training.

This is due to the fact that most of the other guys thinks he’s doing something on _purpose_ to look menacing.

John finds it much harder to seem harmless when he can’t wear fuzzy jumpers and where he can’t help but be a good shot, where more often than not he has a needle or knife or scalpel in hand, but things work out when the other guys realize that’s just how John _is_.

(You can’t fool yourself otherwise when John looks scarily like he could be planning a murder in his sleep)

It’s oddly comforting to be known as the naturally scary one in the camp, when he’s shorter than everyone, and certainly not the most muscled, but John still misses when he can pretend to be normal.

 _Regular_ normal, not _family_ normal…

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

He does his best to keep from his bunk mates dreams, but he isn’t always successful, and it’s only when training’s done and he’s able to find those on the other side in his walks about the Grey Place that he really lets himself loose for the first time since before university.

He doesn’t mind being the object of other people’s nightmares.

Especially when the other people are pointing guns at his friends.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

He meets with his Aunt Marsha at least once every week in the Grey Place, and talks about what’s been going on, laughs over some of the new fears that have cropped up, and though they see each other every time John is between tours, John is always happy to see her.

She tells him more secrets about the Grey Place, and shows him more tricks to keep him and his people safe.

Teaches him how to hide in the blinding sunlight like it’s the more familiar shadows he’s used to, teaches him how to find out what’s on a person’s mind in their dreams, teaches him how to find a person when he can’t see through the dust, the glaring sun, and teaches him how to let himself loose.

It’s from his Aunt that he finds out that his mum isn’t feeling okay, and he’s already frowning when a letter from home comes confirming it. She’s in the hospital.

A little later he’s told that she’s doing much better now, and seems to be making a full recovery from her sudden illness, and John is constantly reminded that for all that he’s close to his family while sleeping, he’s still thousands of miles away.

He’s never felt so far from home.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

He writes a letter to his family saying that he’s made Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and ends up telling his Aunt about it well before it reaches the UK, is told the next night that his parents are happy for him, that Harry and her new girlfriend Clara are expecting pictures ASAP, and gets his cheeks pinched when he insists his Aunt call him Captain Johnny before she wakes up, and John goes for a stroll through a terrorists mind and makes him terrified of bombs for the fun of it.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

In the morning he has a greenish bruise on his cheek from his Aunt’s pinch, explaining it away with shrugs and smiles and a vague possibility of being hit the day before.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

He’s out with Bill collecting the injured when things start to change.

He’s covering while Bill checks on Marson, confirming he’d be okay for transport, and he’s wired for sound, hitting his targets even through the blinding sun and swirling dust devils, and he’s looking back to check when he catches Bills wide-eyed look.

“What is it?”

He’d thought it was a concussion and a fracture, but if Bill was… oh.

 _Oh_ , was he…?

John resettles his gun and checks a sliver of skin showing at his wrist, but doesn’t make a face like he wants to.

Bill shakes his head, startled at the question, and John focuses on getting Marson moving, and knows Bill will explain what he saw away himself.

The sun, the heat, maybe it was a strange shadow under his helmet…

People were good at explaining away things they don’t understand.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

People were also very good at noticing when other people have noticed something.

Especially when what the other person is noticing is something they’ve seen themselves.

John saw the sideways glances Bill kept giving him, but didn’t see that others in his regiment were noticing the same, so focused on acting like the normal John Watson they knew.

So he didn’t hear that others had noticed the occasional grey tinge to his face, didn’t hear that in the flash of enemy fire that sometimes his hair looked darker than sweat and dirt could explain, didn’t hear the speculation about his ability to hit his target through the worst conditions.

He didn’t hear any of it, and so explained away his teams new focus on him during assignments as them getting used to him as Captain.

People were good at explaining away things they don’t understand.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

His Aunt tells him, a month into his third tour, that his Mum is sick again.

His squad doesn’t need to be watching him to know he’s upset.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

One day he walks away from a rookie American, one of the few newbies who decides that the way to prove himself competent, one of the Big Boys, was to belittle those from other platoons and units. The Rookie had snorted and chortled at John being a “Momma’s boy” when he’d been updating Bill and Ted and Hale of his mothers condition (stable at the moment, but they’d said that before), and he’d had to walk away. Had to, or else he might have done something… unwise.

As it was, he knew whose dreams he’d be visiting that night, and he comforted himself with visions of enclosed spaces with too little air, snakes with improbably sized fangs and insects with more legs than they knew what to do with.

He smiled a grim little smile to himself; there would be a lot of those.

He was so distracted with these thoughts that he didn’t see the look his squad shared.

Didn’t grasp that they’d seen the shadows bloom in the whites of his eyes, not until later.

Didn’t know to appreciate their silence at how his eyes glowed a frosty blue in the darkness behind them.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

He and his squad are in between tours when it happens, and he doesn’t know if he should be thankful for that or not.

Doesn’t know if he should regret that he got to the hospital, got to visit her daily for a little over a month before she goes into cardiac arrest, doesn’t know, and somehow doesn’t care.

Because now his Mum is dead.

And that is…

That is just…

There’s a roaring in his ears, but not the fun kind from any one of the many monsters hidden under the bed. It’s not a roar from an exploding truck or bomb, not even the specific whistling-roar of an explosion of shrapnel.

He doesn’t know what it is, and he can’t see through the sound, can’t hear the other Doctor giving them his apologies, can’t even hear his family’s sobs or words of denial, he can’t—his Aunt’s hand, soft and harsh, touched the back of his neck, nails sharp and delicate on the skin on either side of his neck, and he hears one small sob.

Distantly, he recognizes that that pitiful sound came from him, but he can’t, he can’t, because its his pulse that’s hammering in his ear, it’s blood roaring in his ears and— _something_ —that’s making his breathing pick up and heart stutter and clench in his chest.

That something isn’t nice, he doesn’t like it, he just wants to get away—but no, he can’t move, because through the rush of blood and howling in his head, thoughts are blooming in his head.

Because _this could happen to anyone_. Any one if his family could die this way, with strangers working to fix them up. Because his Mum was dead, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it, he couldn’t scare heart problems away, he couldn’t scare other doctors into being able to fix his Mum up faster, better, he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ —

At least in his unit he knew that he would be there—and yes, he’d lost friends both on the field and on his operating table, but in those last moments he could take away that fear of death, that fear of the unknown—

But no one in his family was afraid of death.

 _Everyone_ in his family was most afraid of his Aunt, and there was comfort in being afraid of Aunt Marsha, because _she would never hurt family_ , and _nothing_ was scarier than Aunt Marsha.

So he couldn’t even do one more thing for his Mum, he didn’t have a last minute comfort to give her, because he couldn’t take away her fear of death.

He could feel it, because she wasn’t afraid of death.

There was nothing to sooth, there was nothing he could have done, there was nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, _nothing_ …

He was sitting, (when had he done that?), and his head was being guided down between his knees, and that _something_ , horrible, _horrible_ _something_ , was still riding his pulse, and he heard words like ‘panic attack’ and ‘completely normal’, and all he could think then was _what_?

_What?_

This, this horrible _thing_ was _normal_?

Well other people could take their _normal_ and shove it up their arses sideways, because—

But no, _normal_ died.

Comparatively, his family was normal, and normal people died.

_“They can’t hurt you if they’re afraid.”_

That’s what his Aunt had said to him, way back when, but it was something he kept close to his heart, but it didn’t quite work that way for the rest of his family, did it?

Because when he’d gotten close up to a man with a knife, the blade had gone through him like he was made of smoke, but what if his Da was stabbed?

He would die.

He’d made it to the other end of a bullet of a woman who he’d been sending bad dreams to occasionally, and she’d recognized enough of him that that burst of instinctual fear had heightened, and the bullets had gone through the shadows in his vest and…

Well, they’d gone elsewhere.

But what about Harry?

One drive-by shooting and she was gone.

But it wasn’t just things like that he had to worry about, was it? No, there was sickness like with his Mum ( _dead_ , why was she dead? No, this was not good, not…), and he’d never been sick in his life.

He remembered when Harry had gotten bronchitis, when his Da had to have his stomach pumped from alcohol poisoning, remembered his Mum ( _no_ , no, dead, no, _no, no_ ) being worried about Harry when news of a gay couple being beaten to death came on the news, thought of stabbings in dark alleyways, of rape and torture and the millions of other things that were so much more _real_ and _likely_ than a person’s fear of dogs, than someone’s fear of

Because people he cared about _could get hurt_ , _his family_ could get hurt, they could _die_ , and there wasn’t anything he could do about it even if he wasn’t in Afghanistan.

He knew this because just _look_. He was here, he was here for a _whole month_ , and _his Mum was dead._

He couldn’t, he couldn’t…

That _something_ clutched viciously at his throat, and something inside of him just…

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

John didn’t remember passing out because he didn’t. He didn’t pass out, but he did black out, because he came to in the car, more than halfway home, with his Aunt’s hand still on the back of his neck.

He took in a breath and looked into her grey-blue eyes, and could still feel that something with him.

He didn’t like it.

He wanted it to go away.

~~He wanted his Mum back.~~

That feeling choked him up again, and his Aunt told him to breathe, and it was silly but worked just like it worked when he told his own patients to breathe, and she gave him a look that said she would explain it later.

There were a number of things that, over the years, John learned were better discussed between the two of them, and John thought that this horrible feeling would be best explained by his Aunt Marsha.

The Something curled up in a vicious ball just under his ribcage, and he tried his best to make it go away in the meantime.

Somehow he doesn’t think it will, but where he’s gotten the Watson stubbornness from his father, he never forgets that he’s also a Casey.

He is still his Mother’s son, and Casey’s had their own way of doing things.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

His Aunt tells him what that Something is, and he balks, then wonders, and eventually asks how to get rid of it.

He doesn’t like it, and tells his Aunt as much, and doesn’t take it kindly when she laughs.

He mourns and avoids his Aunt, because what did she know? The rest of his family needed him as well, and while his Da and sister drink themselves into a weeping stupor, he tries exhausting that horrible thing inside of him away by putting all of his Mums paperwork in order and figures out the funeral, going through all the channels to get a date set out for her to be cremated, and reluctantly goes to his Aunt to help him get in contact with everyone to let them know when the wake is.

His Da is drunk and crying throughout, and tells everyone during his turn to talk about Mum that she was so special, special enough that when the Doctors said she was dead, everyone in the hospital felt it.

This was his Da's explanation as to why everyone in the hospital and the surrounding buildings had a fit, and he ignored the look his Aunt gave him, and tried to ignore the look Harry gave him, and almost succeeded in ignoring the looks the Casey side of his relatives gave him, but couldn’t ignore the sidelong glances his platoon gave him after the service.

He gave them a sharp look, wondering, and almost as one they jumped, spooked.

He frowned, and Bill hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder.

“We just want you to know we… we’re here for you John.”

People had been significantly more jumpy around him lately, and he wondered at that, but the majority of his focus was now on his platoon. His friends. Comrades. Did they…

No. They didn’t know.

But they had an idea. They suspected, and John supposed he’d let more slip in his years with them than he’d thought.

He moved to stand with his Aunt to accept condolences from other Aunts and Uncles and cousins he recognized vaguely from his childhood, and looked through the crowd.

It was interesting seeing the Watson’s and the Casey’s mix; more interesting that more Casey’s came to give John condolences than the Watsons.

“You came into your own, Johnny. You’ve _leveled up_ in the game.”

He shot a glance at his Aunt. Considered wrecking the gaming console Harry had given her to fill the boredom of John being away. She’d never said things like that _before_.

“How do you deal with it all the time?” She’d said the same _something_ had come upon her, and her great Grandfather was the one to explain things to her. She’d said that she felt it, too.

It was almost incomprehensible that his Aunt could feel something like _fear_ , more so than the thought that everyone else has experienced this thing all their lives.

That this is what they experience when they have dreams of falling, of drowning, of being chased, that this horrible something that curled tight in his chest and clawed at his throat and set his pulse thumping when he allowed himself to think on it was considered _normal_.

He didn’t know how people dealt with it. He didn’t know how she could deal with it.

Aunt Marsha smiled. A couple of Watson’s flinched back, and John felt a reluctant smile twitch at his mouth.

Aunt Marsha never covered her teeth when she smiled.

“Fear is a natural thing for everyone, even us… it just takes a lot more for us to find out what is _really_ scary. For us. We…” She seemed to be searching for the words, and John shook hands on autopilot, nodding thanks from people who couldn’t possibly understand the quivering fear now always in the back of his mind, couldn’t understand it because they’d been crippled with it since birth.

And John couldn’t think of it as anything other than that, because this fear thing was _crippling_. It was always there, staring through his eyes at Harry, at Da, at even his Aunt Marsha, and it was debilitating.

Aunt Marsha continued her thought much later, in the comforting darkness of her living room, with the dead glassy stare of taxidermy animals staring at them. He absently pet at a raccoons scarred pelt and felt the familiar contours of a cougars snarl.

“We are unique, Johnny. You understand this in a base way, but what we have is tradition deep in our bone marrow. I do not think you quite comprehend the whole of this. No other family may warm themselves in the shadows, none may comfort their families through fear, and _no one else_ is calmed by the bump in the night. We are a wholly unique family in this, and we are protected in our way, but there is always one who inherits the tradition. I from my Grandfather, you from me, and at some point you will be there for the next Casey. You will be there for when they find out what they are afraid of, you will be there to tell them what I am telling you now.” She took up John’s hand and her eyes glowed blue in the dark of her eyes, silver hair steely sharp and skin the solid grey of a nightmare. Her teeth were needle-sharp in the grin she offered him.

 _“Fear is not something to be afraid of_.  We control the fear. We may feel fear and _use_ it in a way that no one else can. You are afraid. And it is the _best_ kind of fear.”

John snorted, feeling bitter and hollow and strained to his limit.

“How could this be the best kind of fear? Fear is not good! It’s horrible!”

“And we can use that. You are afraid in the best way because you are afraid for others. You are afraid for those close to you just as it has been for generations. You may not be able to be there for everyone at all times, but you can protect them in a way that no one else can now! Use your fear! Feel it and make those that would hurt your people feel it! We are unique people in that it takes much more to frighten us than it would anyone else! The only reason I did not say this to you earlier is because you have been keeping to your own mind these past weeks! Had you tried walking through others dreams you would have driven them mad.”

John jerked at that, staring with wide eyes.

Because what if he walked through Bills dreams, or Teds, or, gods, what if he’d gone through Harry’s mind for once—

“Stop it! Now that you know you can exercise caution. You are lucky in that you may use enemy troops to test how delicately you may walk through their dreams…”

Something in the way that she said it made John stop himself from saying something scathing, wondering, and they were silent the rest of the night.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

John didn’t get tired anymore.

It was a strange thing to notice, and an even stranger thing to miss, but there it was.

It was just one more thing on top of a dozen others, as John has to relearn how to be non-threatening, has to figure out how to stand and how to talk and how to keep the shadows and nightmares from escaping his eyes.

One day he’s feeling especially numb, especially stupid with all that he had to pay extra attention to, and isn’t paying attention when Harry comes into the kitchen.

He gets ribbed by Harry that he dyed his hair, and keeps it for a week after that when it keeps Harry from waking up hung over before ‘bleaching’ it back to blonde.

Harry dyes her hair an attractively dark shade of red in retaliation.

“Can’t have my little brother show me up, now can I? Only _I_ have more class than to dye my hair black. Honestly John, you missed your chance at being a moody teenager.”

He doesn’t have the energy to feel disappointed that Harry has blocked out that he’s different like Da has, and only feels resignation to the fact that she’s also taken up drinking to forget the fact that he hasn’t ever had to dye his hair to get it that inky black.

He compliments her new look and leaves AA brochures around her house.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

John stayed in his own head when he wasn’t in the grey space working with his Aunt, and when he was back in Afghanistan he only drove a dozen soldiers on the other side mad.

He didn’t feel terribly bad for it, as it meant they were sent home from the war, but it did mean he was getting speculative looks from his unit when reports came through that a number of the other sides guys were going mad with fear.

When he can go into another’s dreams without driving them to madness he only ever tries driving someone mad the once.

He now knows how NOT to drive someone mad, as well as how to do it on purpose, and if he feels more comfortable with his friends with them knowing part of the truth… well, it is certainly much easier to keep everyone alive with them knowing some of it.

It’s also much easier making reports with the knowledge that they would back him up when he bent the truth.

He missed his Mum, and hugged his fear close to his chest every night as his Aunt taught him how to deal with it. How to manage it.

Things weren’t great, but they were good, and that would be enough.

It would have to be enough.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed :)  
> This was hard to write, and yes apparently I have to have some angst and death in my stories, doesn’t that just suck?  
> To anyone and everyone waiting on It’s Green, I am working on it; I’m stuck on one plot point, and please have patience with me here.  
> I am not abandoning the story.  
> NEVER!


	4. Safety in Fear

John gets the unfortunate moniker of the ‘Boogeyman’ at Main Camp soon after, and that morphs into him being their ‘Little Nightmare’, and ‘Captain Scream’ and a dozen other joking names worse than the last, all coming down to the fact that it is much harder to appear harmless in uniform.

Especially now.

Again, it didn’t help that he regularly had a scalpel in hand or a gun in his arms, but he took some comfort in the fact that his team knew enough of the truth to deal with it.

He didn’t appreciate the giggles when he slipped and scared someone, but that was mostly because that made it look like he did it on purpose.

However there was the little problem that the newer men and women, the ones who didn’t _know_ John, thought the nicknames were significantly less playful He would be fine with this to a point, but it inevitably meant that they hesitated before coming to him with injuries.

So his solution? Give them a more plausible reason for the nicknames.

Now he told horror stories after dinner.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

One thing about having the childhood he had was that he was never short on scary stories.

He watched murder acted out before bed, he’d seen fake blood coat walls and flood hallways and sometimes imagined what it would be like to find a bath full of blood, or severed limbs hidden under his sheets, but that wasn’t the best sort of story to tell soldiers.

No, those sorts of stories would give a thrill to these people, the sort a kid would get from playing a shoot-em-up game, because these were people who lived through people-killing-people kind of death.

It was stories like these that allowed them to imagine that the killer in the story is someone on The Other Side, and while he cycled through what scared people it was good enough for the rookies, but as they matured, got used to it all, those stories didn’t keep them from wondering why John was so scary.

So he kept things fresh with unstoppable monsters, one that turned bullets into hornets, knives into wriggling snakes, and bombs into camel spiders in their pockets.

He could have gone far enough to give everyone nightmares, but always stopped short. Always.

Because a thrill, that jolt of fear they got in remembering his stories, was usually enough for them to go on without making stupid mistakes, because his Aunt is right.

(She usually was.)

Because fear is not something to be afraid of, and he knew how to use it.

If someone is less likely to take a risk when their adrenaline is up because of a remembered fear and caution in the back of their mind… that was good.

If they didn’t go looking for risks getting their adrenaline up, even better.

And it meant that when new guys are placed under his care they don’t jump when he moves unexpectedly, then that means there are a few less holes for him to patch up in the future. 

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

The new guys, Catch and Perry, are friends from Wales thankful not to get split up, and don’t understand why they should trust John when he says to duck or get down.

They’ll learn, not the least because he ends up walking through their dreams with thoughts of what would happen if they got themselves or one another shot because they didn’t trust that John knew when there was a sniper.

They seem horribly young.

They talk about their dreams, which is something new, and the rest of the team trade looks but don’t say anything when Catch and Perry (who were always together and were soon being known as the single unit of Catch-and-Perry) immediately dive when John barks out a warning.

They were a little jumpy, now, but they were working through it.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

Everyone has their own theology in the army: that thing or entity that they pray to, that they ask things of in the heat of battle ( _please God, let me live_ ), that thing that they can think of and be uplifted while crawling through muck and entrails to find their comrades.

Theists of all sorts make their way through the ranks, meet and greet with others of same and contrasting religions, and there’s not one person who will mock or question another person’s beliefs—

Well.

Not one person who _lasts_.

He knows in a base way that there’s belief in a Higher Power through his unit, usually named God for lack of a better name, but that didn’t mean anything, really.

Jaime saying ‘Oh god, oh god, oh god’ was him saying ‘please, let me be lucky this time, please let me make it through it’, because he believed in Luck and superstition.

When Robbie said it, he was actually praying for God’s favor, when Bill said it, it was a general appeal for something to help them out, for all of them to stay safe, and when John said it…

Well.

He liked the idea of there being a higher power, and liked the idea of some being out there who was always watching out for you, so when he said “Please God, let me live,” he meant it in just that way. A request to the cosmos, a hope to be heard if there was someone or something out there to hear him, but ultimately he couldn’t tell if there was anything happening up there.

(Or down, honestly he couldn’t begin to guess where a being like that would prefer to be, and he didn’t bother trying to parse it out)

He didn’t know, so he didn’t bother waiting around for it, because why should he wait around for a possibility when he could go out and do something himself? Why should he wait when his inaction could save someone’s life?

He thought this must be what other doctors must feel, the hope but unwillingness to wait, or at least he hoped so, but religion was one topic that didn’t come up easily, did not come up at all, so he was content with his confusing hopeful Agnosticism.

There was, however, one power he could believe in, and that was his Aunt Marsha.

No amount of atheism skepticism would stop him from believing in _her_.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

John sees the American who’d mocked his worry for his Mum again nearly a year later.

He’s not nearly so cocky, a tired look about his eyes and the hint of fear clutched tight behind his teeth like a bit, and maybe a John from a year ago would feel vindicated. Would feel some sense of accomplishment.

_Hah, that arse was afraid because of him, now. He wouldn’t be mocking other people’s fears now, would he?_

Well no, he wouldn’t, but he was also around to protect his comrades, and so John tries something he hasn’t ever tried before.

He takes away his night fears. The little, scrabbling things that were born of John walking through his dreams are tramped down, no longer the menacing things they were.

Within the first week of the Americans reaching their camp, the difference in the man is staggering.

John just feels tired. Felt like a remembrance of tired, because he was awake and alert and feeling sound, but there was that pressing cottoning thing around his head and pressing at his eyes, and this is probably what it feels like to let go of a grudge you weren’t properly maintaining anyway.

The night before they’re set to head off on their own, John finds a quiet spot to sit and think.

The darkness, as ever, was a comfort, and he considered what he’d left behind during a vengeful walk through someone’s head.

John always knew what he left in people’s heads at night; sometimes some new fears, resolutions of others… he’d never left behind the little demons that were in the American’s head.

It was a strange thing to think on, now that he had so much more control over himself in the Grey Space, that he could have trampled through like that, left spaces for more permanent monsters to take residence.

He wondered how many people were still victims caught in the monsters he left behind.

A noise behind him had him turning; it was someone clearing his throat.

It was the American.

John didn’t glare, didn’t frown, only blinked, confused.

“I er, well, that is… I just wanted to…” he shrugged, clearly uncomfortable, and John didn’t know where he was going with his stuttering.

“Is everything alright?” He thought he’d gotten all the demons…

“Wha-yeah, yeah I’m good, it’s just… I… I realize that last time we were around each other I was, um, rude and er, indelicate, so I just…”

John felt his eyebrows go up.

An apology. Huh.

“I just—how’s your mom? Is she doing okay?”

Johns throat clogged up.

“She died.”

“Oh, oh I’m just—I’m sorry for, I just—”

He looked like he was actually panicking, and John supposed that yes, it would be a bit of a shock to find that he’d mocked another man for worrying about his mother, only to find that the next time you saw him his mother had died…

John couldn’t imagine the feeling.

A bit not good, he supposed, but then John had been taught not to pick at other people’s worries and problems.

He shook his head. If he had to think on it he’d get annoyed again, and he was aware enough of his bad temper to know when to rein it in.

“Never mind,” he interrupted the man, “it wasn’t your fault, and all you did back then was make an arse of yourself.” He gave him a flat smile, and was about to turn back to staring into the darkness when he thought of one more thing to say.

“Just be careful next time you’ve decided to be a prat. Others might not be so forgiving.” He almost said sorry for the dreams, but really he thought they were equal now. He turned his back and resolutely didn’t think on the fact that it had taken a week for the man to find him to apologize.

He listened to him leaving, and had a brief moment of annoyance when the other man parted with a new fear.

The mental image of his own eyes, glowing blue in the shadows of his face, was transferred to a dozen half-remembered night terrors and back again, and he frowned.

He’d gotten rid of those, no need to be bringing them up again.

Some people were just ungrateful…

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

Back at the center of camp, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers watched their Captain and the man walking away from him.

Catch and Perry didn’t recognize him, and Bill told them the gist of it.

They both glared, affronted on behalf of their captain, but were kept back when they wanted to go after him.

Bill and Terry were the ones to find him, later, before thy left for their new stationing.

“Mind if we talk to you for a moment, friend?”

“What do you want? I said sorry to your Captain already…”

Bill shook his head.

“It’s not about that… John is a forgiving sort of guy, and we’re not here to fight his battles for him.”

“We just wanted to…” Terry searched for the right phrasing, “Warn you. Yeah, that’s the right word. Oh, no, we aren’t going to threaten you. Just a word of advice, really…”

“You should just watch who you say things like that to.” Bills lips twisted into a wry smile. “Say it to the wrong person and it’ll haunt you long after you get your head out your arse.”

Terry grinned.

“Yeah, haunts you all right… A real _nightmare_ , if you get my gist.”  He elbowed the other man with a wink and let Bill drag him away, grinning.

The other man was pale, confused, and frightened when they left, a memory of electric blue eyes in darkness stuck in his mind.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

The next time he’s on leave, his Father dies of heart attack.

The only think he can say on it is that at least he hadn’t been fighting with him before it happened.

He still feels that little hitch of fear in his throat when he thinks of his family and how easy it was to lose them, and he looks at Harry at the funeral, feeling it and hating it and loving it.

Harry is drunk, and he’s tempted to make her afraid of alcohol, make her afraid of smoking, make her afraid of all the things she was killing herself with, but he just—

He wouldn’t do it to family.

He _couldn’t_ do it to family.

He looks up from his lap straight into his Great Aunt’s eyes

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

Eventually, Catch and Perry figure out that their Captain was a little _different_ and, like the rest of their squad, accept it.

Accepted that John could find a target through a sandstorm, could find a sniper in the dead of night, could tell when they were walking into a trap, and could be trusted to simply _know_.

They accepted that sometimes their bright-eyed and blond Captains eyes went funny and dark, that his hair wasn’t always blonde, and that just because someone’s gone grey and corpse-like, it didn’t mean that they were suffering from a condition.

It was a condition, of this they were sure, but Captain John Watson was hardly suffering from it.

It was harder to accept that sometimes the bullets they saw hit him didn’t, that sometimes the holes in his uniform are the only holes on his person, but that was something they were learning to deal with.

Eventually, they would fit seamlessly into the beast that was the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and all would be good.

Well, as good as it got when you’re at war.

Except that then things go very bad.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

It’s hot and dry, except under the layers of uniform and equipment where it’s boiling and sweaty.

It’s loud and dirty, except when it suddenly goes muffled and spotty.

It’s good, and it’s bad, and they’re almost done, almost have everyone, almost have everything figured, except…

John notices he’s there almost too late; notices that in the length of time he’ll take to twist out of the way, Catch would be in the line of sight, and the sniper is afraid, John makes him feel afraid, except…

Perry is on the ground, John is holding him together, and if the bullet hits him and misses him, it’ll move through to Perry, and he won’t survive the shock.

John shoves Catch out of the way, makes eye contact with Bill (“ _Sniper! Down!_ ”), and then pain is exploding in his shoulder.

John has never consciously made sure he could be hit—wasn’t sure that he could, not when someone was afraid like he could make them…

It’s almost reassuring that he can choose to be hit, except that Bill was pressing on his shoulder, digging shrapnel out, and he only has enough time to keep the sniper from firing again—turns him to a gibbering mess, and doesn’t even feel bad when he turns his gun on himself—before he’s gone.

In the Grey Space, his Aunt is there to meet him, and is gone and back too many times, and for the first time he can’t leave his Grey Space—almost doesn’t want to.

But, ultimately, when he wakes up with a bandaged shoulder and a tremor in his hand, he’s glad he isn’t stuck there.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

Almost changes his mind upon discovering the limp, doesn’t.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

Catch and Perry are crying when he leaves, and Bill is going, too.

Him, because of the end of his contract and his wife waiting for him, and John would have said he didn’t need the company except that he was sedated the whole way back.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

Physical Therapy is almost more torturous than getting shot.

Going to a Therapist for the transition from being a Captain to a civilian is worse than both.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

Bloody blog.

John writes the horror stories he’d told around the campfire on it for fun, and knows that Ella Thomson isn’t the sort to enjoy scary stories.

He doesn’t even feel bad about it.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

He goes for a walk when contemplating his dwindling funds gets too depressing, and almost leaves Harry’s mobile behind.

He wants to give it back to her, but she’s right in that he needs a phone, and it’s too much of a bother to get a new one of his own, so he takes it, doesn’t like it, and when he meets Mike in the park he exchanges numbers if only because Mike had stayed constant even after all this time.

He was still afraid of overly zealous religious people.

He still didn’t flinch when John showed his teeth when smiling.

He’s still a good guy.

And later, when he introduces John to one of the strangest men he’d ever met, he wants to say thank you to him so much.

Because John had been dealing with his shoulder aching, the phantom pains in his leg, the pain in his arse that is his Therapy sessions, and as much as he likes that Mike has stayed the same after all these years, change could be good.

And when a crazy man whirls from the room, and John is left staggering from the encounter, he finds he still can’t get over the fact that Sherlock Holmes is afraid of Nothing.

                                                           .-~-~-~~-~-~.         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, and this is a bit more of a sad chapter than I was intending…   
> Hope you enjoyed anyway :D  
> And look! Sherlock! Not much of him, granted, but Sherlock!  
> And John got shot :( I know, and even last chapter I was complaining about my problem with including angst and sadness into a story…   
> Well, hope you all enjoyed, and if so or if not, please feel free to tell me so and why :D  
> Have a nice weekend!


End file.
